ANY review of the forthcoming film “Wuthering Heights.”
You looked like a princess the night we met
With your hair piled up high I will never forget
I’m drunk right now baby but I’ve got to be
Or I never could tell you what you mean to me
I loved you the first time I saw you
And I always will love you Marie
I loved you the first time I saw you
And I always will love you Marie
You’re the song that the trees sing when the wind blows
You’re a flower, you’re a river you’re a rainbow
Sometimes I’m crazy but I guess you know
I’m weak and I’m lazy and I hurt you so
And I don’t listen to a word you say
When you’re in trouble I turn away
But I loved you,
I loved you the first time I saw you
And I always will love you Marie
I loved you the first time I saw you
And I always will love you Marie
Dress like a construction worker, carry chainsaws and a ladder, and you can walk off with jewels of inestimable value from the Louvre. Wow.
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Update: [T]he thieves could have got out with a Chardin still life, a Rogier van der Weyden, an ancient Mesopotamian statuette… [T]hieves who executed a robbery that ignored all the Louvre’s cultural treasures for these brainless items are ruthlessly interested in the precious materials from which they are made… I think the French culture minister must have had to suppress a snigger while claiming these items have “immeasurable heritage value”.
Art distills.
Laszlo Krasznahorkai wins the literature Nobel.
[T]he Academy praised the author’s unique writing style, such as his long sentences and unbroken paragraphs that stretch for pages, which have led critics to compare him to Franz Kafka and Herman Melville.
I’m also reminded of Kleist, who got there before these other guys.
I’ve already said on this blog that there are certain sentences that only seem to show up in the New York Times, like this one, which features the phrase “only $100 million.”
One of New York’s vilest billionaires, Ronald Perelman, sued his insurance company because, far from paying him $410 million for fire damage to five artworks, they paid him NUTHIN cuz the paintings weren’t damaged and in any case (again see this post’s title) even if the insurers were in a mood to pay up, Perelman’s goodies were only worth the paltry sum of one hundred million (sniff).
So Perelman suffered not only a money diss, but today he lost his lawsuit because like everyone else – except some massively compensated expert witnesses – the judge can’t see a speck of damage.
The problem with this Artnews piece about differential pricing at the Louvre begins with its eye-popping headline:
France to Charge Non-Europeans $10 Tax to See the Mona Lisa
!!!
White skin?
Do come in.
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Turns out they mean non-EU people pay more.
I am a big admirer of Hervé Guibert, as I explained in my essay “Sade in Jeans.” What I like about Guibert is that he was tough. It seems to me that in the English-speaking world the problem in AIDS writing has been sentimentality — a tearful, victimized, medicalized approach to AIDS and not enough defiance, anger, gutsiness. I don’t want to name names, but we’ve had everything from AIDS deathbed weddings to angels descending.
Of course this has been vastly admired by most people, and I feel like a cad not liking it. But I don’t like its sentimentality. It’s not that different from the death of Little Nell in Dickens. I think people living through AIDS probably get a lot of consolation from that kind of writing. But I think, as literature, it’s dubious.
New Kennedy Center, new repertoire.
There was a sequence where Eliza Douglas, Imhof’s former partner and frequent collaborator, removed her shirt, lay on the floor, and ran a black marker across her nude back. There was a part in which one performer, the talented actress Talia Ryder, intoned the Jeremih song “Paradise” live, and another in which she and another cast member sprawled out together on a dirtied mattress strewn with shattered iPhones. There were many moments in which Douglas and others vaped, puffing strawberry-scented mist into the audience…
Her performers are stony-faced misfits who somnambulantly drift around, occasionally enacting balletic choreographies along the way. The entire performance has the cooler-than-thou vibe of a Balenciaga runway show, replete with a range of rail-thin zillennials in baggy jeans; it has all the surface-level appeal of a Vogue slideshow devoted to one of those events, too…
Why does one performer receive a back tattoo—seemingly for real, with no makeup or special effects—on top of an SUV?…
It’s glib, dull, and hopeless, and it expresses itself well within its first half hour, during a scene where the cast shouts in unison: “We’re fucked, we’re doomed, we’re dead. I think I made you up inside my head.”
What started as an art show near Juan Tabo and Constitution quickly spiraled into a chaotic scene filled with gunshots and ended with a multi-vehicle car crash.
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This first sentence could be a template for future NM cultural events.
What started as a classroom discussion of Husserl’s influence on Merleau-Ponty quickly spiraled into a chaotic scene filled with gunshots and ended with scattered dismembered bodies.
What started as a performance of Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Swans” quickly spiraled into a chaotic scene filled with gunshots and ended with a pile of bloody tutus.
… Moonrise Kingdom, has died.
… during their visit yesterday to the Philadelphia Museum. With its dark lighting and massive interior columns, the building seemed to UD pretty oppressive.
And as for the Cassatt exhibit: The commentary kept telling us her mother/baby stuff is not not not sentimental.
Okay….